Long Shoebox Poems
Long Shoebox Poems. Below are the most popular long Shoebox by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shoebox poems by poem length and keyword.
I look in the mirror
There I see the prettiest girl in the world
For all her curves and edges
She sure is a sight for sore eyes
She knows her beauty is a weapon
The sharpest she could ever wield
Certainly mightier than the pen
Sharpened only by her brains
She is a force
Defeat a distant acquaintance
Nothing that stands in her way
Ever lives to see another day
Brick by brick
This girl built herself up
With help from passers-by
Who didn't know it was an empire they helped build
The girl in the mirror
Is content
In a shoebox in the street
Or in her mansion up on Wilbery Street
Cause she got that inner peace
Rosè on the roof
Designer handbags year-round
The newest wheels in her driveway
Is the only way she rolls
Prayer sewn to her side
Jesus tattooed on her heart
The Holy Spirit her only confidant
Her faith her foundation
The girl in the mirror
Thinks of her faults
Like brush strokes of an artist
Perfect in their imperfection
She is a masterpiece
No need of change
Rich in health and in wealth
Gorgeous on the inside and the outside
The girl in the mirror
Is the best part of me
I feel lucky to know her
Maybe one day I'll get to be her
Form:
Dusty Box of Memories Poetry Contest
Constance La France
"We'll wheel where our wills take us and never tirer loving the ones that love us."
Quote by author
I kept his birthday card in a shoebox. Inside the shoebox was a pair of Gucci men's black lace-up shoes, size 12, costing a fortune. The sadness here is that he never received his birthday present. He passed away two days before his 50th birthday. Inside his card, I wrote, "Babe if you are the last piece of chocolate in the box, I want to save that piece forever." That was 17 years ago. Today when I opened the shoebox a wave of emotions and tears hit me, and I wanted to hit back. I kept thinking, harboring these emotions all these years, "It wasn't fair. Why me God why me ... why did you leave me a grieving widow?" When I looked at his shoes I was devastated and dutifully gave them a shine as my hands trembled. He would have jumped for joy in those shoes but I'll never know. I then looked at the card, orange with kids holding balloons, and playing in a yard. Not only his favorite color. But he would have been touched because we could never have kids. But I'll never know. As I gathered myself at the altar of my life, assembling the items back into the shoebox I couldn't help but hear his voice beckoning me to move on ... I looked up, my voice chocked with tears, "Babe if you are the last piece of chocolate in the box, I want to save that piece forever."
I’ll never forget my first day at primary school
You bounded into the classroom, flashing a gap tooth smile
With your blonde curly hair and blue eyes, I was smitten
My first crush at the tender age of five!
Over the years we became inseparable
Then one day you told me terrible news
Your dad had a promotion and you were leaving the area
We both sobbed buckets of tears and vowed to stay in touch.
Letters flew between us like arrows, then suddenly they stopped
Years passed and I married then subsequently divorced
When moving house I came across your letters
I’d kept them in an old shoebox, they were tied with blue ribbon.
I sat reminiscing wondering how your life had panned out
Months later I joined friends re-united -
To my amazement I found your name
I was overjoyed when you replied to my contact
We had so much to talk about and a lot of catching up to do
I was hesitant when you suggested meeting
Would those childhood feelings still be the same?
The minute I saw you at the station my heart pounded
Still the same steel blue eyes, but a lot less hair!
We talked late into the small hours of the night
and when we kissed … I felt like a teenager again!
We had a whirlwind romance and married three months later
So blissfully happy, making up for lost time …
Until
Until ….the day you’d gone to buy my birthday present
Normally we’d have been together but you wanted to surprise me
You kissed my cheek, drove off on your motorbike into the distance
My memory of what happened next is so hazy
All I remember is a knock on the door
Two policemen were standing there
… I started to scream
N/A in A love lost then found, only to lose again Contest
judged on 08~26~16
FICTIONAL WRITE FOR CONTEST
07~27~16
I came in a tattered old box,
the grand size of a man's shoebox.
I knew that I was unwanted,
around a big empty house I wandered.
On a drive in the country one day,
these people said I was cute and took me away.
But, the novelty of a kitten wore off quickly,
I ran and jumped and was just too wiggly.
So, they gave me to this girl who likes cats,
well, here I am sweet girl, congrats!
She opened the lid slowly and peeked inside,
I was so scared my meow was tongue-tied.
Hello beautiful, she said- but I was frozen,
my kitten spirit had been broken!
In the next days things were happening,
around her apartment I was galloping.
I had new toys, like squeaky mice and balls,
and I would come when I heard her calls.
There were pretty food dishes and a brush,
my fur she would tame whispering, hush-hush.
But, the sweetest was being on her lap,
purring, purring, purring during a sweet cat nap.
The best thing that ever happened to me,
is finding my forever home with this girl of glee!
She does not care that I am too fluffy,
that I have no manners and can be scruffy.
She cares little that I like to scratch things,
from a cat tree this kitty now clings and springs!
She says she adores me to pieces,
whispers that she loves my big blue peepers;
and I sure love this girl- to pieces and pieces.
___________________________
September 3, 2018
Poetry/Personification/My Big Blue Peepers
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1057-890-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Personification of a pet, Wild Animal or Insect
sponsor, Tania Kitchin, Theme chosen - pet cat
Second Place
Banks have it made, they use our money
To make themselves oodles of cash
Then pay us a mere pittance in interest
How come they get away with this trash?
Back in the days of old Jesse James
Were the banks as rich as today?
Did they rip us off like they're doing now?
No wonder Jesse tried it his way!
Is there no justice, is there no law
That prevents such obscene behaviour?
Are we always destined to suffer in silence?
Will the government act as our saviour?
Again on my soapbox and rightly so
Common man doesn't stand a chance
To retire in comfort like our grandparents did
We've all got big holes in our pants
What if we keep our savings in a shoebox
Will the economy crumble and fail?
The rich CEOs, the damn powers that be
Should be served and locked up in jail
© Jack Ellison 2013
Could it be that I exist in a dream
affected by perpetual changes,
a dream of someone who is invisible and unimaginable?
And perhaps I’m not superfluous man there, in this dream,
unlike my perceptions of myself,
to which I succumb more and more often.
But even if it's so, what difference it makes
to my reality, what solace and support
does someone else's dream provide to me?
In that case, it's more than likely
that all my misfortunes occur outside of me,
in the sleeping consciousness of that creature
about whom I know nothing...
But then my assumptions about myself being dreamt
are ridiculous and meaningless..
Or maybe there is an indirect meaning;
perhaps I wanted to be a shoebox, or a rose in a garden
but simply didn't dare to disrupt
the harmony of the gardens or the practicality of the box..
I want to know what brand of fake beef the cook
Uses for this feef stirfry.
Plant Pioneers -
They’re originally balls.
The feef in the sweet & sour is homemade.
I’m drinking a diet cola I didn’t buy here.
But to be fair, all that is left in terms of drinks for sale here
Is water.
To try make the stirfry & noodles last,
I’m writing & using chopsticks & writing.
I piled up the large help yourself buffet box as high as I could without food spilling on the counter,
But I am still hungry & have almost finished it -
It’s like cuddling a close friend made out of food
That will fall from my arms back into the Wok
So the food never goes cold.
Only in the lead up to Christmas can a food friend
Cooling into frost
Be friendly.
I’ll buy cold berries from the market for the Shoebox Christmas party.
& Even among soy sauce tossed broccoli,
There’s a place for plain cucumber chunks.
Having finished eating,
Imma sit here for another twenty minutes
& Order another buffet boxful if I’m then still hungry.
I am currently hungrier than when I started.
I should save some cola for the potential second portion.
RUNT OF THE LITTER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hilda’s in labor!” Mr. Davis shouted across the yard.
barefooted I dashed next door,
witnessing the magic, the slow unfurling
of five milk-chocolate Dachshunds,
slippery and new, squirming in the afternoon light.
they were a writhing mass ‘neath Hilda's warm belly,
each Doxie pup vying for a place at the milk bar,
a frantic, adorable scramble for nourishment.
the runt~smallest of the litter, a tiny replica,
immediately claimed a space in my heart,
a fragile hope nestled in my palm.
giggles bubbled up,
a fizzy sweetness in my throat
watching the Doxies, their eyes closed, wriggle
drunk on instinct and the promise of warmth.
then, the shift~
Hilda’s nudge, almost imperceptible,
the runt, pushed aside,
its tiny whimper lost in the chorus.
the magic fractured,
my first brush with unfairness,
a memory, bittersweet,
etched in the sepia tones of a long-ago summer.
Mr. Davis's weathered hands, a gentle scoop,
a fragile life transferred to mine.
hands, small then, cupped around a life barely there,
a sparrow fallen from a nest.
the shoebox, a makeshift cradle,
lined with a doll blanket~
inside the scent of old shoes, the tiny runt stretched,
then a hesitant yawn, a twitch of his paw.
"Why, Mr. Davis? Why would she...?" the question hung,
a child's innocent accusation against the wild.
Mr. Davis, a sage in overalls,
explained the weight of instinct and
survival's brutal calculus,
too heavy for my young heart to bear.
Now, years later, I understand~
the hard choices and love disguised as pain.
But in the shoebox, in the dust-filled summer light,
all I felt was the fragile pulse
of a life I desperately wanted to save.
I am sure she is awake from her nap, my daughter said.
I ran up to get her; she is two and dazzlingly beautiful.
She is my granddaughter, Molly Mackenzie Cat.
I changed her pants and brought her downstairs.
After her snack I gave her the toy I had brought.
She was not any more interested than a light fixture.
She will find something to play with, my daughter assured me.
Molly crawled over to a shoebox and pulled out some tissue paper.
She giggled as she shook it and ripped it.
Acted like it was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.
I marveled that something so simple can entertain a two-year-old.
Next time I will bring her a box with a couple of crackers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the third shelf down,
where dust performs its quiet ballet,
a shoebox coughs up Polaroids
of someone else’s honeymoon.
The wallpaper remembers~
peels itself back slowly,
revealing the yellowed teeth
of old pencil marks:
Jesse + Sam, 1992,
now just graffiti for termites.
A single glove, left-handed,
curls into a fist around nothing.
The clock, stopped at 3:17,
swallows its own ticking.
Even the ghosts here
are forgetting why they linger.
But sometimes,
when the wind shoulders through
a cracked window,
the whole place exhales~
and for a breath,
every lost thing
remembers its name.